§ 2
A few days before Christmas in the year 1918, most of the Alards were gathered together in the drawing-room at Conster, to welcome Peter the heir. He had been demobilised a month after the Armistice and was now expected home, to take on himself the work of the estate in the place of his brother Hugh. The Alards employed an agent, and there were also bailiffs on one or two of the farms, but the heir’s presence was badly needed in these difficult days. Sir John held the authority, and the keenness of his interest was in no wise diminished by his age; but he was an old man, nearly seventy-five, and honourably afflicted with the gout. He could only seldom ride on his grey horse from farm to farm, snarling at the bailiff or the stockman, winking at the chicken girl—even to drive out in his heavy Wolsey car gave him chills. So most days he sat at home, and the work was done by him indeed, but as it were by current conducted through the wires of obedient sons and servants.
This afternoon he sat by the fire in the last patch of sunlight, which his wife hankered to have shut off from the damasked armchair.
“It really is a shame to run any risks with that beautiful colour,” she murmured from the sofa. “You know it hasn’t been back from Hampton’s a week, and it’s such very expensive stuff.”
“Why did you choose it?” snarled Sir John.
“Well, it was the best—we’ve always had the best.”
“Next time you can try the second best as a new experience.”
“Your father really is hopeless,” said Lady Alard in a loud whisper to her daughter Doris.
“Sh-sh-sh,” said Doris, equally loud.
“Very poor as an aside, both of you,” said Sir John.
The Reverend George Alard coughed as a preliminary to changing the conversation.
“Our Christmas roses are better than ever this year,” he intoned.
His wife alone supported him.
“They’ll come in beautifully for the Christmas decorations—I hope there’s enough to go round the font.”
“I’d thought of them on the screen, my dear.”
“Oh no! Christmas roses are so appropriate to the font, and besides”—archly—“Sir John will let us have some flowers out of the greenhouse for the screen.”
“I’m damned if I will.”
Rose Alard flushed at the insult to her husband’s cloth which she held to lie in the oath; none the less she stuck to her coaxing.
“Oh, but you always have, Sir John.”
“Have I?—Well, as I’ve just told my wife, there’s nothing like a new experience. I don’t keep three gardeners just to decorate Leasan church, and the flowers happen to be rather scarce this year. I want them for the house.”
“Isn’t he terrible?” Lady Alard’s whispered moan to Doris once more filled the room.
Jenny laughed.
“What are you laughing at, Jenny?”
“Oh, I dunno.”
She was laughing because she wondered if there was anything she could say which would not lead to a squabble.
“Perhaps Gervase will come by the same train as Peter,” she ventured.
“Gervase never let us know when to expect him,” said her mother. “He’s very thoughtless. Now perhaps Appleby will have to make the journey twice.”
“It won’t kill Appleby if he does—he hasn’t had the car out all this week.”
“But Gervase is very thoughtless,” said Mrs. George Alard.
At that moment a slide of wheels was heard in the drive, and the faint sounds of a car coming to anchor.
“Peter!” cried Lady Alard.
“He’s been quick,” said Doris.
George pulled out his watch to be sure about the time, and Jenny ran to the door.